


Sanity Break

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:09:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5855374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag story to "Legacy." Still reeling from what happened, Daniel isn't anxious to share when things get...strange again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanity Break

First published in _Redemption 3_ (2003)

 

Preoccupation was the best cure. Daniel Jackson had learned that a long time ago, from when reading books took his mind off his parents’ death, to throwing himself into research so he could ignore the derision of his colleagues, to keeping busy with the SGC in order to not think about Sha’re. It would get him through this, too. It had to.

He drank a deep draught of coffee, the special blend Jack had unexpectedly given him the day before. Normally, he would have savored the rich flavor, the slight hint of raspberry, the wonderful fresh-ground smell, but the purpose of the gift marred its enjoyability. Jack was obviously feeling guilty, as were Sam and Hammond and probably even Teal’c. And for once, Daniel didn’t really care. He’d accepted the coffee, pretty much lived on it since then, and gone back to work.

The worst part wasn’t the nightmares, or the looks he still received in the hallways, or even the shame of what had happened or how completely helpless he’d been. It was the fact the people he trusted—his teammates, General Hammond, Doctor Fraiser—had agreed to what had been done to him. Within days of the first symptoms starting, they’d written him off, shipped him away to an asylum, and locked him up in a straitjacket. Never a thought as to other causes for what he was going through; they visited other planets, for Pete’s sake! Technologies, powers, stimuli completely beyond their knowledge, and all they’d been able to think of was sudden onset of schizophrenia? They hadn’t quit on those who had started turning into cavemen after their visit with the Touched, had they? Or on Teal’c when he’d begun turning into that giant bug? Or Jack when he’d started talking in the language of the Ancients and building weird gadgets? But Daniel started seeing things that weren’t there, and they immediately decided he was nuts and took him away. And in the end, Daniel had been the one to find the answer and get himself out of there, not his friends. How could he trust any of them again after that to stick by him if something else went wrong one day?

Or now, for that matter. Being back at the SGC again still felt unreal, off, somehow, and Daniel half expected to turn at any minute and see another zombie or an open Stargate in his closet. And so he’d thrown himself into his work all the more to keep from thinking about the reason he didn’t trust his friends. The simple fact was, he wasn’t even ready to trust himself yet.

Daniel angrily plopped the mug down on his desk and drew the open book before him a little closer.

Most of his life, all he’d had was his work and his conviction in himself to keep him going. Then the SGC had come into his life, and friends and a wife had been added to the mix. And now all he was down to was work, and Daniel wasn’t sure it would be enough.

The text blurred on the page in front of him. No use. With a deep, unsteady sigh, he turned deliberately to the computer instead.

Daniel pulled up the logs on their last mission before the planet of the Linvris. It had been a desert planet with odd pyramid-like long-abandoned dwellings scattered near the gate. He wanted to take another look at the pictures they’d taken, compare it to the description he’d just read. It might help pinpoint the origin of the dead civilization they’d found as …

What? Daniel frowned at the screen. That was strange. He was certain he’d written his report on the mission before Ma’chello’s bug had gotten to him but … no record. Nothing except his teammates’ mission reports.

That couldn’t be. Shaking his head, Daniel accessed his personal journal. P3R-333 wasn’t there, as if it’d never existed. Not as far as he was concerned, anyway.

A glitch, that had to be it. Daniel tried the mission before that, and it came up at once. Well, okay, maybe it was just the one—perhaps he’d erased instead of saved it, somehow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something stupid like …

Wait a minute. Daniel scrolled down the page of the opened report, confusion deepening as he read. The facts were right, the who-what-when-where-whys. But his conclusions about the planet, about the mild-mannered inhabitants they met—Aztec traditions and culture? The natives had been about as far as you could get from the brutal Aztecs. And Chac and Kukulcan? They were Mayan gods, not Aztec. What was going on? His mission analysis read like a badly written high school paper, total nonsense, not a studied, analytical work. This wasn’t what he’d written.

And yet there was his computer and date stamp, his electronic signature at the end.

Daniel stared at it, uneasiness pitching about in his stomach like a tossing ship. Okay, fine, maybe he had written it. Maybe he’d been having a bad day. Same with when he’d managed to erase his report for the mission that followed. Anyone was entitled to a bad day, especially with what had happened to him the week before.

Grimly erasing the ersatz summation—and noting for the record why he was erasing it, as required by the computer—Daniel started over again. He didn’t let himself think about why he needed to do so in the first place.

 

The cafeteria was blessedly quiet, the little table where Daniel sat along one wall even more so. It gave him a sense of not being so alone, a situation he’d silently begun to dread, while still letting him steer clear of socializing. He wasn’t quite ready for that. Talking meant thinking and answering questions and … thinking, and anything was better than that.

Daniel started to read again, soon realizing he had no idea what the article was talking about. He sighed softly and started at the beginning again. The coffee by his elbow was beginning to cool, but he ignored it. Jack’s gift had spoiled him already for the sludge the commissary served.

Loud talking at the doorway made Daniel look up to see SG-3 noisily coming in. It seemed like their mission had gone well, smiles and good cheer abounding, Major Choi teasing one of his men about something that made the rest of the team laugh. Daniel smiled faintly. He missed that sense of camaraderie, far more than he let himself think about. What good would that do?

One of the SG-3 people noticed him and called out, and Daniel winced in dread as he saw the team turn as one and make their way over to him. That was the last thing he wanted, that sort of distraction and reminder all in one, but he forced himself to smile. Had to put all those nasty rumors to rest, after all, right?

“Jackson! How you doing?” Choi’s smile was friendly, only a little bit assessing.

“Fine, thank you, sir,” Daniel answered politely. “How was the mission?”

“Great—turns out we arrived just in time for an annual celebration. All the food and drink and entertainment we could take for a week! How’s that for timing?”

Daniel sought out the archaeologist of the team, Nate Rigby, who moved closer, holding a notebook. “Harvest celebration. I took notes if you want to go over them later.”

Daniel nodded, more than a little relieved to be getting back to business. “Sounds good.”

“Can we get you something, Dr. Jackson?” Captain Hiruta asked him politely.

“No thanks, I’m fine,” he waved them off, indicating his coffee and his magazine, dropping the hint he was just peachy by himself.

Choi picked it up, starting to shepherd his team away. “We’ll let you get back to your work. Tell Jack when you see him he missed a great party.” He was grinning again.

Daniel offered a wan smile in return. “I will.”

The boisterous team moved off, already going on to the next subject, ignoring him. Which was just fine with Daniel. He returned yet again to the start of his article, making it through the first three paragraphs before his brain seemed to stop processing once more. Stifling a groan, he drank a sip of the coffee.

And instantly spit it out, the dark liquid spraying across the table and floor in front of him, splashing on the article. A second later it was soaked as Daniel leapt up, knocking the cup over in his haste as he scrambled to brush warm coffee off both the front of his shirt and his magazine, and spit out into a napkin what was still in his mouth.

Choi had immediately rushed back to his table. “Jackson, you okay? Should I call Fraiser? What happened?” His team hung back, looking askance at the scene.

Daniel finally got the worst of the taste out of his mouth and shook his head. “No, I’m—I’m okay. It was just … there’s something wrong with the coffee.”

Choi was frowning at him, but obediently dipped two fingers into the dripping pool on the table and put it to his tongue. He glanced up at Daniel. “Tastes fine to me.”

Daniel blinked disbelievingly at him, then at the coffee that was still trickling to the floor. The taste had been unbelievably foul, nearly choking him as soon as it had hit his tongue. How could anyone not taste that? Hesitantly, he reached his own hand out, also wetting it in the spilled coffee and delicately bringing it to his mouth. Typical commissary coffee just as it had tasted at first, dark and bitter and thick but with no sign of the awful taste it had had a moment earlier. He gave Choi a bewildered look. “It wasn’t … this wasn’t how it tasted before.”

He already knew the look that would be in the man’s eyes, a look awfully similar to the one Jack had given him only a few days before, sympathetic and embarrassed and disbelieving all at once, although Jack’s had been liberally mixed with worry. Great way to restore his reputation.

Daniel shut his eyes and shook his head. “Forget it. I was just … distracted.”

“Sure,” Choi agreed too readily. “I’ll just get someone to clean this up for you.”

Daniel nodded an absent thanks and gathered up his journal, avoiding the man’s eyes as he hurried out of the room. He hated the pity. He’d seen it before in Jack and Sam and Teal’c’s eyes, but it had only reinforced his helplessness, hadn’t made his friends help him. Pity only hurt. He felt the eyes on his back as he left the commissary, and knew what had happened would soon be all around the base. And the heavy emptiness of desolation, familiar from only days before, settled inside him again.

The walk back to his office was a long one, the gaze of each person he passed on the way a solid weight on his shoulders. It was a relief to reach the sanctuary of his office, the privacy it afforded. He shut and locked the door behind him, dumping the journal on his desk and sinking into his chair with a tired exhalation.

Okay, so maybe … there had been some taste in his mouth already that had momentarily tainted the coffee. But he couldn’t imagine from where—all he’d been ingesting was that one cup drawn directly from the urn everyone drank from. And clearly the coffee had been fine. The only realistic explanation was that he’d imagined it. Daniel’s hand curled into a fist. Except, that wasn’t an explanation at all, at least not one he’d accept anytime soon.

Squaring his shoulders, he rose and went to his own coffeemaker, drawing a cup of Jack’s Starbucks blend. Daniel took a hesitant sniff of it, then sipped.

And wilted. It wasn’t Jack’s coffee; it was the usual awful base blend. But that wasn’t what he’d had in his filter, he was sure of it. It was supposed to be the Starbucks coffee, from the bag that was sitting right next to—

It wasn’t there. Not anywhere on the top of the small cabinet.

That couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Daniel kept repeating that to himself as he jerked out one drawer after another. He remembered making the new coffee, he was sure of it—he’d even been drinking it earlier. And he’d left the bag …

In the bottom drawer of the cabinet, unopened and still sealed.

Daniel reeled back from the drawer. What kind of a sick trick was this? He _had_ opened the coffee; there was no doubt in his mind of it. And yet there it sat, untouched. Not even a prankster, assuming they could somehow get into his locked office, could have resealed the bag. Which meant …

He groaned, not wanting to think what it meant.

A man only had his memories and the facts he knew, the facts his senses told him and his brain recorded, to guide him through each day. If he couldn’t trust that … Daniel ground his palms into his eyes. That lostness in itself was madness, and it frightened him like nothing else he’d ever known. It was hard to think over the sudden pounding of his heart, the tremor of his thoughts. There was no way he was going back to the asylum. He’d leave the SGC first, leave the country if he had to. He couldn’t do this again.

A month before, he would have gone to Jack. Heck, a week before he _had_ gone to Jack, and look where it had gotten him. The desire was still there, still strong to confide in someone, to find someone who would reassure him it was all explicable, everything was okay. Now, though, there wasn’t anyone he could think of whom he would have believed it from.

Enough work, enough of that place, Daniel told himself savagely, levering himself to his feet and grabbing a few things to stuff into his briefcase. He was tired, imagining things, haunted by the memories of that office, the base. He had to go home, then everything would be fine. The coffee-soaked magazine went on top of the pile, and he slammed the case’s lid shut, then hurried out the door.

Just a good night’s sleep, away from the SGC. It was all he needed.

Oh, God, if only he believed that.

 

It _had_ actually done him good, the different environment, the sleep. The nightmares still came, but Daniel went to bed early and slept in and awoke feeling more like himself than he had for too long. The day before had just been a series of mix-ups brought on by too much sleep and too active an imagination. It was obvious with the fresh morning’s perspective. He’d been on edge, expecting to slip up again, and it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy. Everything would be fine now.

The phone rang while he was in the shower, and Daniel gritted his teeth as he left the bathroom, dripping all over his wooden floor to answer it.

“Daniel. What’re you doing there?” Jack, sounding patient the way he was sometimes when he was really annoyed.

It was a stupid thing to ask him, especially when he’d been in the shower. “I live here, remember? I came home for the night.”

“Yeah, well, you were supposed to be back at 0800 for a briefing. Our mission coming up, remember?” Their first one since Ma’chello’s bug and the asylum, the one Jack had been itching to finally go on, their bid for normalcy.

“I remember, Jack. I also remember you sent a memo that the meeting was postponed ‘til this afternoon, 00—uh, four p.m.”

“What memo?” Jack was teetering between puzzled and exasperated.

“The memo on my desk yesterday morning.” Daniel was starting to feel exasperated himself.

“I didn’t send a memo. Meeting was always for 0800. If this is some excuse for sleeping in—”

A cold shiver went down Daniel’s spine, and it had nothing to do with being wet and only wearing a towel. “I’m—I’m sorry, I thought … I’ll be there soon as I can.”

Jack’s voice suddenly lost its stridency. “Hammond already rescheduled it to 1400—two p.m. Can you make that?” It was an earnest question, when sarcasm was more his style. Daniel knew very well the team had been walking on eggshells with him, embarrassed over what had happened to Daniel, embarrassed for Daniel, worried he might really go over the edge next time. It was one of the reasons he’d been avoiding company.

“I’ll be there,” he managed to get out, heard Jack’s soft, “Okay,” then, “You all right?” But he hung up, not even wanting to find an answer to that.

The good mood and energy of the morning dissipated, and Daniel stood for a long minute by the phone, thinking, lurching from panic to logic and back again. He could remember the memo, down to the sweep of Jack’s signature on the bottom. But there was also no way Jack would lie to him, especially right then, which meant it hadn’t happened. Either.

Woodenly, he went back to the bathroom and finished getting ready.

 

The trip in was on automatic pilot, the passing Colorado scenery not even drawing a glance from him. The memo wasn’t—couldn’t—have been real, and yet he could remember reading it, wondering why there had been the change, the feel of the paper in his hand. So what was going on, just an old memory? Had he dreamed it and thought it had really happened? Or could he really just have imagined it?

The answer hit as he neared the gates, a sign of his disturbed state that he hadn’t thought of it before. He’d left the memo in his in-box—he’d just show it to Jack, clear the whole mess up. Maybe someone had recirculated an old memo; Daniel couldn’t remember the date on it. Or maybe it’d been a joke. He wouldn’t have put it past Ferretti or a few of the other guys to fake Jack’s name like that. But this time at least he had physical proof. Going through the check-in procedures in a relieved rush, Daniel hurried down to his office, then tore through the papers on his desk.

No memo. Not in the in-box, the out-box, the piles on the tabletop. The recycling box and to-shred box also turned up empty. The trash can had been emptied overnight, but Daniel was certain he hadn’t thrown it away.

At least … as certain as he was of anything at that moment.

Another idea struck. The ensign who usually delivered memos—Telfor? Teleford?—he would know. He was one of the few who had a key to Daniel’s office, and he delivered all intra-base material. Daniel slid his briefcase under his desk and, carefully looking the door behind him, went off to look for his proof.

It didn’t take long to track down the supply officer, who pointed him in the direction of the supply room. Daniel gave himself a mental kick—he knew Teleford used it as an office to work out of, especially for clerical work. That was his next stop …

Except, it was time for the meeting. He glanced yearningly down the hall toward the supply room, wishing he could settle the matter … but he was on thin ice as it was with Hammond. Grimacing, Daniel headed for the conference room.

Pulling himself together on the way was an effort, even more so when he stepped into the room and saw the questioning faces of his friends.

“Everything okay, Daniel?” That was Jack, half-official, half-friendly.

Daniel just nodded, slipping into his seat. Hiding his shaking hands under the table. He could do this. He had to. It was all he had anymore.

Hammond arrived a moment later, and the briefing began.

P39-521 was a tropical planet with no sign of intelligent life. The general gave them the analysis on the MALP report, and Sam did her scientific survey. Then it was Daniel’s turn. Taking a breath, he pulled out the file he’d put together two days before, anticipating as much as Jack the chance to go back to the way things were. He needed to do this. The mantra played in the back of his mind as he opened the briefing dossier.

The file, the folder he’d rechecked only that morning, was empty. Daniel stared at it, incredulous.

“Anything wrong, Dr. Jackson?” Hammond asked.

He glanced up, around the table. Everyone was frowning at him. Worrying about him.

Daniel didn’t let his expression change as he carefully replaced the file in his bag, pretending he’d pulled out the wrong one. The frigid despair that sank through him, settling into his limbs like ice, didn’t show as he cleared his throat and proceeded to deliver what he could remember of his notes in weary monotone instead.

If anyone noticed it was a briefer report than usual, they didn’t say anything, but it was without relief Daniel lowered himself into his chair when he was done, his report already forgotten. His head hurt, and he was almost shivering as he hunched into his jacket and prayed for the briefing to end, to wake up in his bed with the last two weeks a fading dream.

To know he was sane.

Daniel flinched, refusing to think any more until the interminable briefing finally ended. And as soon as Hammond said the words, he excused himself and was already out the door, ignoring the fact both Sam and Jack looked poised to ask him something, anxious to get away from his friends and their questions he had no answers for.

Daniel headed straight for the supply room, fatalistically unsurprised not to find Teleford, only Rigby in search of some envelopes, and a large airman Daniel didn’t recognize making some copies. Why should that go right when nothing else had?

“Daniel!” Rigby brightened at the sight of him. “I have those notes typed up—you want to go over them this afternoon?”

“Uh, maybe.” He was distracted, paging through the stacks of paper on the one desk in the room. “You seen Matt Teleford anywhere today?”

Rigby shook his head even as the airman spoke up behind them. “He called in sick. Hunter’s filling in.”

Daniel slumped. Figured. Yet another dead end. He could always call the man up at home, but was this really that important? Not unless they were ready to stick him in that straitjacket again, he thought with sick humor, but nobody knew anything was going on yet, right? Well, except for the coffee. And the meeting time. And maybe that he’d been winging it at the briefing because his notes weren’t where he’d put them. But they were mistakes anybody could make. Daniel kept telling himself that as he trod out of the supply room back toward his office.

Rigby walked part of the way with him, chattering cheerfully about the mission they’d just come back from. Daniel listened with half an ear, trying to be interested and failing. There were explanations for everything that had happened—some of them a stretch, but explanations nonetheless. But added together, a series of coincidences was unlikely. Far more probable was the one thing they had in common—him. Daniel Jackson, recent resident of the loony bin.

He suddenly stopped, Rigby almost walking past him before catching himself. “Daniel?” he asked, surprised.

“What if Teleford was sick yesterday, too? Maybe Hunter’s been filling in for a couple of days.”

The young archaeologist blinked at him. “Who said anything about Teleford being sick?”

“The airman in …” Daniel’s legs were suddenly weak. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see the airman in the supply room?”

Rigby’s confusion deepened. “There wasn’t anybody else in the supply room but us. Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

“No,” Daniel said numbly. “Look, I, uh, have to go. We’ll go over those notes … later.”

“Okay.”

Rigby was still watching him as Daniel walked off. Once out of sight, he ran the rest of the way to his office.

The Starbucks bag was back on top of the cabinet, half-empty now. Daniel didn’t bother thinking about it, simply made himself a cup of the coffee and sat down at the computer.

The last mission log from before their visit to the planet of the Linvris was nonexistent. His entry on the mission before it made even less sense than before, going on for five pages about South American tribal watchmen. Five pages of gibberish.

Daniel didn’t even try to fix it, just turned the computer off with a swallowed sob, terror clawing at his skin from the inside, trying to get out. The little discrepancies, the bad coffee—he could explain those away if he tried: distraction, poor memory. But the memo and the airman in the supply room? Making up things and people that weren’t there? Could that be anything but mental instability? Maybe Ma’chello’s little device left aftereffects, or maybe the experience had been the one to push him over the edge. Nick was in an asylum—maybe craziness ran in the family.

Maybe he belonged in that place he still had nightmares about.

Behind him, from the cabinet in which he kept artifacts from different missions, the sound of a chevron engaging came faintly, breaking the quiet.

Daniel froze.

There was the grinding sound of the gate turning, then another chevron engaging.

Oh, God, no.

The unmistakable, too-familiar play continued, the remaining chevrons locking in as Daniel turned to stare in horror at the cabinet. Then the sound of a wormhole ka-whooshing open. If he opened the cabinet doors, no doubt he’d have been staring into the watery surface of the event horizon. Just like last time, just as impossible.

He didn’t look. Without a moment’s hesitation, Daniel jumped up and fled his office, leaving the soft sounds of an open, imaginary Stargate behind him.

 

He’d driven, aimless except for the need to run, to do something, until the sky on his left started to reflect the colors of sundown, and Daniel found himself in Wyoming. And the need to escape suddenly became a need to return and find an answer. He pulled off the empty road, made a u-turn, and headed back.

It was close to midnight when he parked in front of Jack’s house.

There was no reason Daniel should have gone there, except that reason had given out and there he was. Nor was there any reason Jack should have been there; he stayed overnight at the base at least as often as he went home. Yet the truck was parked in his driveway, several lights on inside his home. It had been the same sight to welcome Daniel when he’d gone to Jack’s, adrift, mourning Sha’re’s loss, struggling after his sarcophagus addiction, sorting out his feelings after Nem. It was his last stop when he had nowhere else to go, and even though the image of Jack staring at him in the asylum still burned vivid in his memory, Daniel had no other options left. He _had_ to trust someone, no longer able to trust himself, and Jack … even after everything, his instincts led him to Jack. Maybe that was crazy, too, but Daniel was too weary and desolate to worry about it anymore.

He crawled heavily out of his car, shivering in the night air, and stumbled up to the door. And there he stopped dead.

Another long pause, arguing with himself. It could be his last stop as a free man. Jack would probably listen to his story and then put a call in for the men in white. Daniel couldn’t have even honestly blamed him after those last two days. But this was no freedom, uncertainty about what to believe, what to trust, afraid at every turn to find some reality other than the one he expected, that he _knew_. Jack was the answer, one way or another.

He knocked.

The door opened with remarkable speed, not exactly as if Jack had been in bed or lying in his easy chair, watching TV. The brown eyes that lit on Daniel were barely surprised, more concerned, even maybe a little relieved. Had he known, been waiting for Daniel to turn up? To turn himself in?

Daniel shivered, feeling the emptiness below him as he swung at the end of his rope.

“Daniel? What’s going on?” Oh so casual.

“I need to talk to you,” he simply said, hearing the lost tone of his voice.

The concern in Jack’s eyes deepened to worry, but he swung wide the door without hesitation. “Come on in.”

Daniel did, breathing a deep sigh as he passed the threshold. For better or for worse, this was it, but there was something about that place, the casual warmth of the house, of its owner, that made him relax. Instinctively, this felt right.

“You wanna take your jacket off?” Jack was eyeing him.

Daniel shivered again. “No. I’m cold.”

That was accepted without comment. “How ‘bout a beer?”

He considered that, but alcohol tended to wind him up, not calm him down, and Daniel felt wound impossibly tight already. He shook his head, nearly asking for coffee instead until the memory of the commissary made him bite his tongue.

Jack waved him on into the living room, detouring into the kitchen for a moment to return with a beer of his own.

“Little late to be out this way, isn’t it?” he asked conversationally as he took a seat across from the sofa where his guest had perched. The cavalier attitude didn’t fool Daniel for a moment. He knew Jack too well not to catch the narrowed eyes the covert studying. Jack was still wary of him, too. Well, why not? He’d been right.

Daniel shook his head, tired beyond expression. “I’m sorry, I … couldn’t sleep. There’s something I have to tell you about.”

“Okay.” O’Neill took another sip of his beer, set it down. “Shoot.”

“I think … I think I’m still crazy.”

The snort wasn’t what he expected. “I’ve been saying that all along, haven’t I?”

“I’m serious.”

“So’m I. Anyone who would rather spend time with a bunch of rocks instead of at a mountain lake with a fishing pole and a—”

Daniel was near tears of frustration, every emotion at the surface now. He sat forward. “Jack, I mean it! My reports sound like a second grader wrote them. The coffee tastes fine one minute, awful the next, and then it’s fine again. Things aren’t where I put them.”

Jack leaned in toward him, too, the forced lightness gone, his voice suddenly kind. “That doesn’t mean you’re going crazy. I forget where I put stuff all the time. Last week I found my keys in the fridge. It’s called ‘getting older’.” His slight frown was completely at odds with the casual words.

“I’ve been hearing and seeing things again, too,” Daniel said quietly, knowing he was driving the final nail into his coffin.

Jack’s expression shifted minutely. “Same as before?”

“Some.” Daniel dragged a hand through his hair. “I heard the Stargate dialing up in the cabinet. And I saw an airman who wasn’t there.”

“That’s not as bad as last time,” Jack noted, waving his concerns away with a hand. “Maybe it’s just aftereffects. Coupl’a hallucinations in parting? Sounds like just the kind of thing ol’ Ma’chello would do.”

Daniel shook his head, slowly, despair impossibly deepening. Here he’d been worried about Jack having him locked up again; the one thing he hadn’t considered was his friend not even believing him. “Maybe you’re right,” he said woodenly, standing. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, Jack’s previously neutral expression suddenly sharp and intense. “Don’t go.”

Daniel jerked himself loose. “Why, so you can keep telling me how crazy I am to think I’m going crazy?”

“Daniel, if something’s going on, we’ll get to the bottom of it. We’ll figure it out and fix it.”

“How, by having me locked up again?” He took small satisfaction in seeing Jack flinch. “I’ve seen how you fix things. I can’t do that again.” Daniel’s voice almost faltered at the end.

“No one’s locking you up again,” Jack said firmly.

“How can you promise that?”

“It’s not gonna happen, Daniel. They’ll have to go through me to get to you again.”

Daniel paused, rooted where he stood. That vow was as fierce and defensive as he’d ever heard Jack get, and he’d seen Jack in protective mode more than a few times. But there was a fire in his eyes now that wasn’t aimed at Daniel and steel in his voice of a man who wasn’t to be messed with. Whose friends were not to be messed with.

Doubt crept softly into Daniel’s mind. Could it be that Jack had been against Daniel’s “treatment” before? Suddenly uncertain and more lost than ever, he slowly sat down again.

“What about last time?” he finally murmured.

Jack’s face could have been carved in stone, all stiff planes and angles. “Last time happened too fast. You were gone before we had a chance to do anything. And the good Doctor Mackenzie didn’t tell us where they were taking you—I don’t think even Hammond realized what that place was like. I had to pull a lot of strings just to get us in to see you, and when we realized what was going on, Carter and I started pushing hard to get you out.” A humorless smile. “You just beat us to the punch.”

The memories were cuttingly sharp. Daniel’s eyes lost focus, turned inward. “I thought I was going to be there the rest of my life, Jack. They kept me drugged so I couldn’t think, couldn’t even have my glasses …”

A hard grip on his forearm drew him back to Jack’s living room, and he looked up into furious brown eyes. “You listen to me, Jackson. We don’t leave _anybody_ behind. Not here, not off-world, not even in Hell. It may take a while before we can figure something out, but we keep at it ‘til we do and everyone’s home safe. You got it?”

He nodded mutely, stunned.

“Good.” Jack let go of his arm and unexpectedly reached up to tousle Daniel’s hair. His voice softened, grew almost gentle. “I’m sorry it happened. You didn’t deserve that.”

For one wonderful minute, that made everything right again. Trust and hope revived in the simple warmth of knowing someone cared about him, even someone who was starting to look a little embarrassed at his admission. Some of the bleakness washed out of Daniel and he gave his friend a fond look, a look Jack pretended not to see, but they both knew better.

And then reality and memory returned with the weighty truth. Daniel’s relief dampened.

“But what if I really am crazy?”

“You’re not crazy,” Jack said shortly.

“When did you get your doctorate, Dr. O’Neill?” Daniel shot back.

“I may not know the fancy names and diagnoses, but I know people. I know you. You’re not going crazy.”

“Then how do you explain—”

The shrill sound of a whistling tea kettle interrupted him, and Daniel blinked in surprise. Jack raised a finger. “Hold that thought.” He got up and went out into the kitchen.

It was hard _not_ to hold the thought. So Jack wasn’t going to let him be locked up again—there was a certain relief to that. But it didn’t make recent events just go away. Some things were even beyond Jack’s control, Daniel’s mental state among them.

Then again, wasn’t this the man who’d teased him out of depression and self-doubt so many times, had held and rocked him when addiction tore his world apart, had stayed up all night to listen to Daniel talk after the Gamekeeper’s little device brought his parents’ murder back in vivid detail? If anything, Daniel owed Jack his sanity a few times over.

So … maybe this was fixable, too? He hung on to that hope with desperate fingers.

Jack reappeared, a teacup held gingerly in his hand as if he were afraid he might shatter it. At the rise of Daniel’s eyebrows, he nodded at it. “Some herbal tea I had on hand. SGC white elephant gift.” His eyes were grinning. “Figured it would come in handy someday.”

Daniel was surprised at how good that sounded. He accepted the delicate china cup, probably a remnant of Sara’s presence, and gave it an appreciative sniff before he sipped. Raspberry—it was wonderful, soothing.

Jack fidgeted. “You need some more sugar? Lemon?”

Daniel peered at him. “You have lemon?”

“Nope, just tryin’ to be polite.”

He actually cracked a smile at that, before he took another long sip. The guardedness, the fear, even the weariness didn’t seem to have a chance against a determined Jack O’Neill. Starting to warm through, Daniel finally shrugged out of his jacket, and Jack reached for it immediately, throwing it lightly over a nearby chair before sitting down again across from Daniel on the sofa. His expression was back-to-business even as his eyes shone with reassurance and encouragement.

“So, tell me what’s been happening.”

Sighing deeply, both his hands wrapped around the fragile tea cup, Daniel did. The reports, the coffee, the airman, the mission file, the memo, the Stargate in the cabinet; he included it all in stark, condemning detail. Jack only nodded, his eyes never changing. It reminded Daniel of when he’d told O’Neill about his hallucinations the first time, in the infirmary … but while Jack’s skepticism had been evident then, this time there was only noncommittal, attentive concentration. It gave Daniel the courage to finish the damning story, until he finally sat back, falling silent, cringing despite himself at what he’d just revealed. The colonel could have him locked up within the hour and no one would question it. You didn’t get much more vulnerable than that.

Jack was silent for a long moment, impassively digesting what he’d heard. And then, he reached for the phone.

Daniel stared at him in dismay. Oh, gods, he was calling Mackenzie. Daniel’s hands started to shake and he put the tea cup down before he broke it. He’d halfway expected this, but Jack’s insistence and reassurances had lulled him, and now … The tea was threatening to come up again and Daniel curled forward a little, miserably trying to breathe.

Jack’s hand settled on his knee, gripping it hard. Daniel stared at it dully, barely hearing as Jack’s call went through.

“Carter? I have something I need for you to do, personally. I think someone’s been tampering with Daniel’s computer—any way to check that?”

Carter? Not Mackenzie?

Jack had paused, listening, his eyes meeting Daniel’s as the younger man finally looked up, warming and for a moment almost … sorrowful? As if he’d known what Daniel was thinking—and he probably had—but there was no disappointment in his expression, not even a mute scolding. He just squeezed Daniel’s leg and offered him a ghost of a smile as he spoke into the phone again. “Good. Would that include the time stamps and computer access?”

Sam. He was calling Sam, asking about the computer. Finding Daniel that other explanation he’d started to believe didn’t exist. But Jack hadn’t doubted.

Another pause. “Great. Get on it ASAP. I think we’ve got a wolf in the fold.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

Daniel blinked at him, trying to process, struggling with new hope. “You think someone did this? That someone’s been doing all these things to me on purpose? Why?”

Jack grimaced. “Think about it, Daniel—perfect timing for anyone who wanted to get rid of you. You just got back from your little field trip, still a little shaky, and things start moving themselves and you start hearing things again. Either you quit, worried you’re really losin’ it, or else you go berserk and get shipped off to the funny farm for good. Which they don’t know _isn’t_ going to happen again.” He added the last forcefully.

“Why would someone want to get rid of me?” Daniel asked, confused.

“That’s what we’re gonna find out.” He was sounding more like the colonel again, less like Daniel’s friend, but it was with real gentleness he gave the younger man’s arm a pat. “Okay, you never actually saw the ‘gate in your room, right?” He waited for Daniel’s shake of the head. “So all somebody needed was a key to your office to rig that and the coffee.”

Daniel threw him a questioning look.

“Tape recorder,” Jack elaborated patiently. “Wouldn’t’ve been too hard to tape our gate opening.”

Oh. He should have thought of that. He might even have found the recorder if he’d looked for it instead of running away, but Jack was nice enough not to mention that.

“The coffee in the commissary would’ve been a little harder, but you can poison somebody by dosing the edge of the cup. Might’ve worked for this, too.”

Daniel had no intention of asking how he knew that.

Jack was leaning forward, ticking things off on his hand. “That leaves, what, the file? You ever have that out of your sight between when you packed it and the briefing?”

He thought for a minute. “Yeah—in my office.”

“Key again. That wouldn’t be hard to get. Only thing that leaves is the airman. That’s also the only thing that couldn’t’ve been faked. Who told you the airman wasn’t there?”

Daniel had stilled, horrible suspicion blooming. “Nate Rigby, from SG-3. But he’s an old friend—”

Jack’s face was unusually grim. “Who wants your job. Guess who volunteered to fill in for you while you were off at Happy Acres?”

He could feel the blood draining from his face. “Nate? But …”

“And he was in the commissary with the rest of SG-3 when your coffee got screwed up, right?”

Daniel nodded dumbly.

Jack was reaching for the phone again, and this time Daniel ignored the subsequent conversation with Hammond. Nate Rigby, one of his former students, a man he’d recommended to the SGC. Experience had hardened Daniel, taught him suspicion and wariness, but he’d never even thought to consider Rigby anything but what he seemed.

“Daniel?” Jack’s voice was surprisingly mild, and it drew him back with a start. “Hammond’s on it now. We’ll have answers by morning.” He nodded toward the back bedrooms. “Why don’t ya crash here tonight? We’ll go in and sort it out tomorrow.”

“He was my friend, Jack,” Daniel murmured, hearing his own bitterness.

“No, Daniel, _you_ were _his_.”

He opened his mouth to argue there wasn’t a difference, but then closed it again. Of course there was—hadn’t that been his issue with Jack those last few days, thinking he wasn’t the friend Daniel had thought him to be, hadn’t felt the way Daniel did toward him? What an idiot he’d been.

“You know, this’s happened to me a few times, too, stuff disappearing and reappearing, not recognizing what I wrote the next day. ‘Course, it usually involved drinking large quantities of beer the night before …”

Jack’s offhand comment almost made him choke on the tea he’d been absently finishing, and Daniel cracked up before he could catch himself. He looked up to see Jack give him a quick wink.

He _had_ known, how hard it had been for Daniel to come to him, what he’d thought when Jack had picked up the phone, how the terror and deep-down ache hadn’t ever really gone away. And he was still there, eyes soft and dancing all at once, in for the duration. Had been even the week before.

That alone had the power to lift the worst of his despair, and Daniel found himself grinning for the first time in weeks. “Actually, in your case I think it’s called being delusional, Jack.” O’Neill had nudged him to his feet, and they headed back toward the guest room. Apparently he was spending the night, no argument.

“Me? I’m not the one hearing ‘gates in my closet.”

He wouldn’t have thought he could joke about it yet, but the rejoinder came almost automatically. “I can arrange that.”

“How would you like to be demoted, Jackson?”

“I’m a civilian,” he answered smugly. It felt good, almost normal.

“We can change that.”

He fell asleep still faintly grinning, too content, for the first in some time, to dream.

“Nathan Rigby was escorted from the base at 0700 this morning. His room was searched and several items of interest were confiscated, including a key to your office, Dr. Jackson, an unopened bag of Starbucks coffee, and this.” General Hammond set a tiny tape recorder down on the briefing room table, pushing a button on it. The sound of a dialing Stargate came from it.

A quiet, satisfied “yes!” came from just behind him, but Daniel didn’t turn to look at Jack. He just gaped, speechless even if it was what they’d been expecting. While the reason was just the rational explanation he’d been hoping for, the one Jack had offered him the night before, he’d still continued to hope there had been some mistake, that Nate couldn’t have been to blame. A friend had turned on him, after all.

“Captain Carter?” Hammond nodded at Daniel’s teammate.

She smiled kindly at him from across the table. “Daniel, the colonel asked me to check your computer for tampering, change of programming, anything out of the ordinary. I found several places where your files had been altered, the date stamps also changed to cover up the tampering. I can’t tell from what I found who did it, but it would have had to have been someone who knows quite a bit about computers.”

“Nate worked his way through school as a network engineer,” Daniel said tonelessly. He should have been glad. He knew that, and felt everyone’s expectations for the same, but he felt curiously empty instead.

“That was what we’d learned, too,” Hammond continued. “At any rate, what we had was plenty to remove Dr. Rigby from the project. While what he did to you was, strictly speaking, not against the law—” his voice was almost apologetic, “—tampering with military records is, as is taping what is officially a classified project, the Stargate in action. It may seem like frivolous charges, but Dr. Rigby will stand trial and face some sort of punishment. I’m just sorry it couldn’t have been more.”

Daniel shook his head, eyes on the polished tabletop, still numb. “It’s okay. That sounds … fine.” What were you supposed to feel when a supposed friend was being punished for doing something like this to you? Satisfaction? Grief? It was still hard to trust his feelings.

Hammond hesitated. “There’s something else I think needs clearing up.” He straightened. “While the events of last week seemed reasonable at the time, especially in light of Dr. MacKenzie’s medical judgment, it’s clear now that our actions were hasty and extreme. I apologize for that, son. I can imagine how hard it must have been.”

Daniel looked up at him, taken aback, and stammered a quiet, “Thank you, sir.” Where had that come from? His confusion just deepened.

Hammond looked at him thoughtfully a moment longer, then nodded over his head to Jack and left the room to SG-1.

“I am glad you are well, Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c addressed him from next to Sam. Daniel gave him a half-smile. Teal’c had gone through his own ordeal, nearing death before Daniel had figured out Ma’chello’s little legacy.

“I am, too, Daniel,” Sam said warmly, draping a hand over his. She looked tired, and he wondered how long she’d been up the night before, working on his computer. To find the answer for him.

A hand poked his shoulder hard from behind. “What did I tell ya?” Jack crowed. “Knew it all along.”

Daniel dragged himself out of his brooding and breathed a laugh, shaking his head as he half-turned. “What made you so sure, Jack?” he asked, caught between dejection and hope.

Jack leaned toward him, his answer for Daniel’s ears alone. “I know you, Danny boy.”

Daniel had thought he’d known Nate, too, but then, he’d never gone through fire and flood and death with the younger man. He actually hadn’t known Nate Rigby well at all, when it came down to it.

Unlike the three who sat at the table with him now, watching him, worried for him. The friends he knew and loved and, ultimately, trusted still. That reliability had proven itself time and again. Real friendship, as Jack had pointed out.

The tangled thoughts and feelings melted away, hope defeating dejection, and Daniel sat up, giving his teammates a small but real smile. “So, when do we leave for the next mission?”

Jack squeezed his shoulder, Sam patting his hand. Teal’c merely looked immensely satisfied. Daniel knew the feeling.

It wasn’t over. He knew that; he wasn’t dumb. But hope together with good friends was one heck of a start.

The End

 


End file.
